


spectrum

by contagionangel



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: M/M, Pre-Slash, Soulmarks, may be a start to a series?, not actually a soulmates au, this is pointless indulgence fueled by painkillers and suffering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-14
Updated: 2016-11-14
Packaged: 2018-08-30 22:05:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8550970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/contagionangel/pseuds/contagionangel
Summary: Over his shoulderblades, there's the faint, sketchy lines of wings, lit up with soft orange along the edges, and some part of him hopes that idiot holds up to his promise to face down with him again. It's strange. He wasn't especially challenging, the only thing impressive was his wasted athleticism, but that first incredible jump-- well. Peering over his shoulder at the mirror, Tobio traces his fingers over the oddly dark feathers and wonders.





	

Lore on marks is long and complex; in the end, there's no standardized biological explanation for why or how they happen, so speculation runs rampant in every culture. One of the few mysteries left of the modern world, like space and the depths of the ocean.

To Tobio, they're one of those aspects of window dressing on life, like the way people dress or cut their hair. It distinguishes them from each other. That doesn't mean that it means anything.

His own are few, small, and relatively static. For anyone who plays team sports for a while, they tend to shift and grow, falling in sync with particularly important teammates or rivals or even idols. But over his heart is a faint silhouette of a high toss over a net, and it makes the rift that took him two years to notice grow even bitterly wider.

It's no worse than the sneers of King, to hear the jokes that the only thing he cares about is himself, that he's his own soulmate and will probably die alone. He doesn't bother to argue with it because he's not sure it's wrong, although it's obvious how much he loves volleyball. He has small, fixed-in-place marks on his shoulders for his parents, blink-and-miss-it in a world where others bound around with swirls of words and color, and Oikawa-san's always got watercolor-like impressions that never fail to draw coos from others.

The most distinct marks on Oikawa-san are the patch on his right arm that's intricately shaded with the color and texture of stone, and a crown on the back of his hand that he usually keeps covered with a bandage. It sets deeper, more stark when he calls Tobio stupid, when Tobio pulls off an impressive play in practice, and during the moment he doesn't process until hours later, bouncing the ball against the wall of his house over and over again with serves and receives.

Oikawa-san had yelled at him less that day. Not that he minded much when he did, because he had his own practice to focus on, because Oikawa-san never chased him away when he watched intently even after continued refusals to teach him. But it made him think that maybe he was getting better, that maybe this time the answer would be yes.

The uncovered hand had risen and been pulled back by Iwaizumi-san, the crown standing out like an angry wound, and Tobio had gone home, and he didn't get upset, but once the moment had clicked he thought to check the uncharacteristically soft but vivid watercolor river on his side that nobody had ever noticed in the changing room. The colors had and lines had shifted to look somewhere between a bruise and a storm, threatening, and he pulled his shirt back down and practiced until he collapsed into bed from exhaustion, feeling hollowed out.

More wound-like crowns fester faintly around the edges of his teammates' practice bruises, although never as strong or distinctive as Oikawa's. It's fine. It's fine. He doesn't need to be their friend. He doesn't need to mean anything to them. As long as he keeps getting stronger, they have to stand beside him on the court. As long as he tries harder, works more, they have to need him, and he can stay in the game.

The next time his marks change, it's when he gets home from thoroughly thrashing that insultingly unskilled and persistent kid that he wonders if he'll ever see again. (The way the setting sun reflected off glassy eyes is embedded in his memory in a way he's not used to from anything but the thrill of an especially tricky play.) Over his shoulderblades, there's the faint, sketchy lines of wings, lit up with soft orange along the edges, and some part of him hopes that idiot holds up to his promise to face down with him again. It's strange. He wasn't especially challenging, the only thing impressive was his wasted athleticism, but that first incredible jump-- well. Peering over his shoulder at the mirror, he traces his fingers over the oddly dark feathers and wonders.

His failed opponent had been swept up with colorful marks, not terribly distinct but brighter and stronger than Oikawa's, and he wonders some more.

Nothing changes again until he tosses and nobody is there, and the world falls blank and bleak in monochromatic blues as he shakes on the bench. It doesn't fail to catch his eye as he changes that the mark on his chest has shifted to be tinged with blue as well, and the net is scratchy and torn, the setter is turning back to see the ball fall to the ground. Or is it a ball? It's an odd optical illusion, looking somewhere between a ball and a cracked, broken crown slamming down.

He's not given to romanticism or dramatics, and he still loves volleyball, and he vaguely wishes it surprises him when he fails the Shiratorizawa entrance exam but it doesn't, and so he goes to the nearest school that still has an active club.

Maroon sleeves rolled up, waiting for the upperclassmen to arrive, he goes to set a practice toss and then freezes from the sudden rush of itching up his shoulderblades as the door slams open.

"WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?" a scratchy, high-pitched voice bellows, and the ball bounces directly off the top of his head as he turns to stare.

He turns and sees the wide eyes and flyaway hair that are etched into his memory, a face barely refined by a year's time that goes through a ridiculous amount of cartoonish contortions. Tobio waits, wary, watching, hears his own name blurted out to him.

"You're...last year's..." He frowns deeper, stares harder, because the feathers on his back have gradually shaded in, getting more distinctive rather than fading, but-- "I don't know your name."

Even Tobio can recognize the reeling, blanching response, wonders absently if there's another crown that looks like a wound somewhere on this tiny ball of aggression and excitement and frankly little else.

"My name is Hinata Shouyou! You'd better remember it!" he blurts, then faltering. In his mind, Tobio records the name. "But I guess...you wouldn't remember a guy who lost in the first round, huh." Hinata's eyes are ducking to the ground and, shoulders burning, Tobio steps forward.

Yelling, bouncing, and absurd threats are irritating enough, but seeing his tiny, awful new classmate shrink in on himself sets off a bizarre desire to punch something. Maybe the universe. It did back when he picked a petty argument with his upcoming opponent in front of the bathrooms, and it still does while he sees the bright hair clash with the slightly oversized maroon sweats.

The idiot has no clue about the orange-tinged wings that undoubtedly stretch a bit over the skin of Tobio's back as he leans forward. "I definitely remember you." he says. It'd be hard not to.

He scowls, his brain a flurry of assessment and questions and strange boiling aggression, and what comes out of his mouth as Hinata-- _Hinata_ \-- takes up a defensive posture is an emphatic "You goddamn clumsy shit bastard!"

The argument escalates rapidly, and the reds and golds on Hinata's palm, all too reminiscent of someone older and Hinata's opposite in skill and polish, fail to escape Tobio's notice.

His day only gets worse from there.

__

He gets home late, exhausted and conflicted, muscles burning but some strange energy coiling up in him as he anticipates the next day, thinking over how to correct Hinata's posture on his shitty receives, the spark in his eyes as the importance of the setter's role had clicked for him, the contagious determination and simultaneous frustrating naivete that makes him want to scream.

There's an early, early morning ahead of him, so he washes up quickly, but he's stopped cold for a moment. He stares blankly at himself in the mirror, turning, because the oranges of the mark on his back have brightened, mixing with pinks and yellows, and the feathers are much, much darker and more distinct. They're starting to look like tiny crow wings.

He doesn't have time for superstition or emotionalism or whatever it is that makes people obsess over things like this. Nothing about Hinata's potential-- incredible, but if it's been wasted this long, he's unlikely to have the will and focus to truly refine it, and the waste makes Tobio grit his teeth-- is enough to justify the softly lit edges or the suddenly deepened shading. He'll make do with what he has and he'll work until he's strong with it, like he always does.

Even so, he falls asleep with his brain flooded with the bounce of soft, fluffy hair and a million and one irrational thoughts about what that potential could be if he finds the right way for correction in the right order. He doesn't know where to start.

He dreams of the smell of the gym and the cold, dark place in the pit of his stomach when he'd been benched, and then vaguely of beams of sun moving to pry that crumpled core of him open. When his alarm goes off, he's thrown off by the fact it's still dark out, because the searing heat and light had been incredibly vivid.

**Author's Note:**

> sorry lmao this kinda starts nowhere and goes nowhere?? i just had one of those feelings where i Had to write it. i hope that i churn out some followups because i have about a billion headcanon in this 'verse.
> 
> for those who missed it, basically, in this soulmarks can be semi-prescient but mostly reflect who's had an impact on you, who stands out in your mind, etc. it can be love or hate or a million things in-between as long as someone is important to someone else, and the way marks manifest varies a bit from person to person.
> 
> nishinoya will absolutely never let anyone live it down, fyi, that post-hinata most of the team has a lightning bolt and "guardian god" in a meme-worthily awful font with black feathers swirling around it tucked at the smalls of their backs. because he guards their backs. asahi has the biggest version, but additionally, under his bellybutton he always has the text of whatever nishinoya's latest meme t-shirt says. asahi's hands are littered with the soft impression of a sun and a crown, and delicate eyelashes with a distinctive dot next to them. it eventually fades, but for a long time, he has an iron wall over the back of his hunched shoulders.
> 
> under their collarbone, on the opposite side to their heart, sawamura, sugawara, and nishinoya each have a small playing card-- an ace. the first time he sees it again, stronger and more distinct than before, the cracks appearing in the fading iron wall mark that let tanned skin show through become undeniably distinct.
> 
> i'm incoherent and having a lot of feelings.


End file.
